


starring: hamlet and mothman

by petalprose



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, do not copy to other site, written in lowercase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 03:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: your name is pine, and you were supposed to have died centuries ago. you think it would be more preferable than having to actively participate in modern college life because your apparent new friend decided you just had to.how the hell are you going to explain to him that no, you don't have any student debt or name on your i.d because you don't legally exist, or that you have no idea how he knows either of these things?





	starring: hamlet and mothman

**Author's Note:**

> initial draft of s:ham; the overall plot and characterizations have changed since then but i'm rather fond of this first version.

"hey," someone says, sounding vaguely like they are standing behind you. you aren't quite sure. you lost all sense of direction somewhere in between the past decade and the multitude of academic papers scattered at the library desk in front of you. or is it beside you? oh, whatever, it doesn’t quite matter. you hum, short and low, as a half-hearted attempt at a response. there's a solid five seconds after you acknowledge the stranger and wait for a reply before they actually do reply.  
  
"uh, hello? did you hear me?"  
  
...what?  
  
"what?" you say. you lift your head up and immediately regret it. it takes you a few moments to blink the stars from your eyes.  
  
"wow," says the voice. "you... you seem real messed up. i guess you really didn't hear me the first time. you okay, man?"  
  
you are not quite flattered by this. you tell the disembodied voice so; and, having regained the ability to see, turn around to face them.  
  
"i'm just fucking peachy," you say, looking up. you squint for a second, because either this person is the tallest person on this plane of existence or you're hallucinating. you lift your gaze higher to look the Very Confused Seemingly Friendly Giant in the eyes.  
  
hmm. they look concerned.  
  
"the librarian right now said you've been here for like- the whole day," they say, hands in their ridiculously sized red hoodie. it looks far too big for them. in direct contrast to the message the hoodie is trying to convey (cold, comfortable) their jeans are tight and ripped to hell and back. you understand why they are sometimes called distressed jeans. you feel mild distress upon seeing them. is this the norm? is this sort of fashion sense what society has moved on to in the brief amount of time you've ignored it?  
  
unforgivable. they should have just regressed back to capes.  
  
the Increasingly Concerned Stranger keeps talking whilst you ponder this.  
  
"and by whole day she meant the _whole day_ ," they babble on, somehow managing to involve their whole body to help indicate the emphasis. "since _midnight_. bro, how are you even awake right now?"  
  
_how are you still talking?_ you want to respond _. how have you not hit your head the ceiling?_  
  
"sheer force of will," you say instead, deadpan. "seasoned with the tears of overly concerned stangers like you."  
  
the Now Slightly Offended Unreasonably Tall Person frowns down at you. you're starting to feel a bit dizzy from looking up so much.  
  
"you're welcome for my concern," they tell you, shifting from one foot to the other. "it didn't seem like you'd reanimate before i made you. here," they take their right hand from their hoodie pocket. you're surprised when you identify the object they hold as a donut; one with chocolate glaze at that. you are made abruptly aware of the empty state of your stomach.  
  
"want it?" they ask, holding it out to you. you purse your lips in consideration, looking from the donut to their expectant expression. eventually hunger triumphs over suspicion and you reach out to take the donut from them with a begrudging thanks.  
  
"so," they say, after a moment or two of you tearing into the donut with as much grace as you can muster, “did you know you’re called a, like, cryptid by some students here? they can’t decide if you’re mothman or if you’re your own cryptid. you’re barely ever seen is why, i think."  
  
you almost snort at their attempt at small talk but don't because one: you are currently eating and you don't want to end this first impression by dying and two: eating has helped you regain some sense of decency and politeness.  
  
"good," you tell them, in lieu of a more scathing response. "i want to be known as a cryptid. i make it a point to not be seen."  
  
"yeah, i, uh, could see that. from the pile of books around you." they gesture with their free right hand pointlessly. "jesus, what even is your major? i'm pretty sure i can see a ninth grade math book there. are you okay?”  
  
"i’m not okay, i'm a god," you say. you lift your donut hand from where you had placed it on a stray paper and frown when the paper comes along with it. shaking it off, you continue, "i am unbound by dumbass mortal constraints and ideas such as ‘common sense’ and ‘okay’. i'm taking both law and paleontology."  
  
"what, really?" they ask, a brow raised, "can i ask why both? and you need that math book because?”  
  
_boy_ is this person inquisitive.  
  
"double majoring. i wanted to be a dinosaur cop as a child," you tell them, pronouncing each syllable delicately. Concerned For Your Mental Well Being doesn't seem to notice the underlying condescension. "the very best that ever was. i punched a pigeon in the beak because it seemed to threaten my canaries, which i had because i thought they would evolve like pokemon into dinosaurs. it was an establishing moment in my life. very formative."  
  
"wow, uh." they run a hand through their hair, only succeeding in making it look arguably worse. "that just raised more questions than answers. i just saw a really amazingly bad rendition of hamlet as a kid and was sold on theatre. yours blows mine out of the water."  
  
"thank you." you shove the rest of the donut into your mouth. Theatre glances around as you chew and sets their hand on a nearby chair, pulling it toward them and sitting down at your current 2 o'clock.  
  
"mind?" they ask you. you make to speak then think better of it, shaking your head instead. they make themself comfortable.  
  
"so, Theatre," you say, once you finish the donut, "got a name?"  
  
they look at you, seemingly unimpressed as you wipe your mouth clean with the back of your sweater sleeve.  
  
"haven," they say. "theatre major, as you have so clearly picked up on."

“haven, huh,” you say. “nice.”

he waits for a moment. you fold up the small paper the donut had been on into a small rectangle. he keeps waiting.

eventually you sigh. “pine,” you say. “name’s pine.”

“pine, huh?” he parrots, and the way he says it makes you think he’s just doing it to irk you. “nice.”  it’s somewhat working. you need to get back to work. the sustenance was appreciated but ultimately it’s proving more and more of a distraction as time goes by.

you’re halfway through coming up with polite ways to ask someone _please_ _get the hell out_ before he speaks up again. “mind if i sit beside you a while?” he asks, “all the other tables are occupied.”

you blink. “what? there’s an empty table right _there_ ,” you say, gesturing at said table. he shrugs. “there was a couple making out there earlier,” he says, as though that explains everything. “i don’t want cooties.”

“cooties.”

“didn’t hear me?” he stands, pulling the chair so it’s a few spaces away from you but still at the same table you’re at. he sits back down. “man, you must be way more out of it than either of us realized."

you sigh. “whatever,” you say. “you can study here. it’s not like i was developing symbiosis with the books that you’ve now ruined or whatever. it’s totally fine.”

“is that something you develop as a cryptid?” he snipes, grabbing at a book you’d pushed off to the side. you think it’s an encyclopaedia. something something dinosaurs. “the ability to form a symbiotic relationship with any inanimate object of your choosing?”

“the inanimate object chooses us.” you side-eye him. “what are you reading that for? are you going to stage a play in the Jurassic period or something?”

“hell no,” he says, reply nigh automatic. he pauses. “that would be sick though.”

“it would make me sick.”

“then that’s just a bonus.”

you roll your eyes, turning back to your laptop. you glance at the clock and take note of the time; it’s 15:54. you arrived at the library around six AM and hadn’t left since. it’s… mildly shocking.

the two of you fall silent after that exchange; at some point haven gets up and you assume he won’t be coming back before he does, with three books with him. he sits back down to read them. you continue looking over the textbooks you have, biting your lip as you scribble note after note in as legible a hand as you can manage.

 _i need to get home by five thirty,_ you think absently. _i’ll have to finish making the draft by five. when i get home i should probably do the laundry first, should probably cook some dinner- or just order takeout._

haven’s phone rings. with immediacy that confounds even you, your head shoots up the moment it begins.

he starts. looks at you with a slightly hilarious cocktail of confusion and alarm on his face.

“sorry,” he offers, pulling his phone out of his hoodie pocket. he frowns down at it before tapping on the screen and putting it up against his ear. you don’t really mind the sudden interruption; at least, not as much as you had initiqlly. another glance at the corner of your screen tells you that it’s been around forty minutes since he’d sat back down. you should probably start finishing up here, tie up a few obvious loose ends. he turns in his seat to face away from you, seemingly exasperated with the person on the other end of the line. for the most part you ignore his conversation, focusing on typing as many words as you physically and coherently can.

when he finishes a call it’s when you’ve finished typing up a new paragraph. he says another apology, mumbling about a worried boyfriend. you hum absently, glancing at your notebook before continuing to type. you don’t find out if your apparent apathy annoys him or not.

you finish up two more paragraphs when you bother to check the time again; it’s two minutes to five, at this point, and you should begin taking your leave. you stand up and almost keel over. haven looks up, bemused.

“dude,” he says, and you hold a hand up from where it had been braces against the desk. “not a word,” you say. “don’t even begin. i’m fine. just been sitting too long. legs are asleep.”

he looks mostly unconvinced, but nods anyway. “right, okay. you leaving?”

you nod, stretching once you feel steady enough that you won’t make an absolute embarrassment of yourself in front of this virtual stranger. “yeah, it’s five. contrary to what the librarian may have said i’ve just been here since six, not fucking midnight. but six is still hella early and i actually haven’t eaten any food since then, so.” you shrug. “thanks for that. donut.”

“you’re _welcome,”_ he says, sounding like he’s savouring every syllable. you suppress a scowl. “want help with those?”

he points at your mess of papers, books, and notebooks. you almost decline, but the sheer magnitude of the chaos makes you reconsider. “sure,” you say. “since you offered.”

“i’ll gather up the books and the notebooks,” he says, already moving to do just that. you close the open document on your desktop as he picks up a dark blue notebook. it has a sticker of a starfish on it. he seems to find it amusing, but doesn’t comment on it, instead focusing on the task he’d given himself. “I figure you have a specific order you want your papers in or whatever.”

“you’d be correct,” you say, lying through your teeth. while the laptop shuts down, you shuffle some of the papers into a haphazard pile. there is no organization system. there are just shitty doodles in the margins of your papers. when the papers are more or less aligned, haven offers you your notebooks. the books you’d been reading are in two piles with no immediately evident organization system, mirroring the state of your papers. not that haven knows, of course.

“here,” he says, unnecessarily. you take them and pull up your backpack from under the table, unzipping its main compartment and  placing them inside. you do the same with the laptop once you’ve made sure it’s off and closed it. you put it on, rolling your shoulders. haven’s wandered back over at his designated area of the table, looking briefly at his phone before he places it back inside his pocket. “it’s five seven,” he tells you. you nod.

“thanks.” pushing your chair back into its original place tucked into the table, you ask, “you aren’t going to leave yet?”

“why, want to escort me out?” he says, then shakes his head with a grin. “nah, i still got stuff to do. see you though.”

“hopefully not,” you say. because that seemed a bit too tactless even by your standards, you add, “i do have a reputation to uphold after all.”

he laughs at that, but it’s a short sound. “yeah, my bad. bye.” with this picks up the book he had been reading before offering to help you organize. when you respond with your own farewell he doesn’t look up, and you don’t turn back as you’re walking out of the building.

/

it’s a while before you see the Theatre kid again.

maybe about two weeks at most. you’ve mostly forgotten about him, except not really, because it was kind of odd and a change of pace from your usual day-to-day itinerary. glancing over your schedule for that week shows a distinct lack of planning for a nosy theatre student. there is, however, planning for a group project when glancing over this week’s schedule. it’s one of your general education classes, one you’d dropped last year and had to retake this year because of _reasons_ , and the very first meeting for it is already going tits up.

exhibit fucking a:

"trevor, goddamnit." you frown at the space in front of you. "how high are you right now?"  
  
you hear muffled cursing through the receiver. "i dunno," his voice filters through. it's hoarse and tinny. "what time is it?" the laugh he barks out grates on your ears.  
  
"shut up, don't joke around here." you check the time anyway. "five fourty-six."  
  
he mumbles something about missing another appointment or whatever and you slouch even more than you had previously been. "miss what?" you all but hiss, left hand gripping the seat of your chair, "what the hell else did you have to do for today?"  
  
he snorts. "nothin' you gotta worry about, sweetcheeks."  
  
_gross_. "gross," you say. "don't fucking call me that again." he hums, noncommittal.  
  
the windows in the library show you that it's gone dark outside. you should definitely just leave. you want to eat something, too. "well, i'm not going to wait for you to sober up." you stand. your chair makes a noise that makes you wince as it’s pushed back.

glancing over the covers of the books you're considering bringing home, you snap, "you're doing this project on your own."  
  
there's shuffling on the other end, then a faint thump. "what?" trevor says, sounding incredulous. you stack three books on top of each other and consider a fourth one, holding it up with your free hand. "you can't do that. the professor won't allow you."  
  
"yes she will." you resist the urge to sneer at open space. you know your professor will, she gets why you ask to do these alone. you've only ever accepted a partner this once and it's already come to bite you in the ass; she'll be understanding.

you place the book you'd been considering on the stack of the other three, and when trevor begins to sputter an indignant retort you end the call with an inaudible sigh. you shove your phone into the right pocket of your jeans, halfway glaring at the bit that sticks out before shutting your eyes with a grimace.

time to clean up, you guess.  
  
when you've finished gathering and organizing the papers, a quick glance at your phone informs you that it is now 17:53. you think you’ll stop by that one restaurant on the corner of the street the library is on before you go home. you’ve only been there a total of three times, but the food was good.

you push your chair back into the table, arranging the papers as you place them into your backpack. when you walk out, the librarian is busy talking to a couple of students.

you pull out your earphones and when you step out into the evening air, it’s with _Blindness_ by Metric playing. you walk without really paying any attention to your surroundings. it irritates you that trevor just blew you off without prior notice, but you’ll live. you’re just not sure if you’re going to tell your professor the actual reason for his lack of cooperation, and by extension your sudden immense distaste at the idea of his help. if he’s actually decent and apologetic once he’s sobered up, you will consider letting him off easy and coming up with another reason.

if not, well. to the sharks he goes.

you’re starting to get honestly bothered by the cold when the restaurant is in sight. your phone has been dropped back into your pocket, and you’re alternating between tugging at one sleeve and the other. you’re biting your tongue when you notice the familiar silhouette of disastrous hair.

frowning, you realize it actually is the kid who had given you a donut a week ago. his name was haven, you think. you can’t really see his face from where you are, especially considering it’s covered by a poster of an advertisement, but you can see how his fingers are tapping erratically on the tabletop he’s sitting behind. his other hand is resting on his right elbow. damn, what’re the odds of Theatre being here? must be your lucky day.

when you get closer is when you notice someone make their way over to his table. you’re still a ways away, but you can see that it’s a waitress, not a friend. she holds a notepad with both her hands, keeping it close to her chest as she leans forward to say something to Theatre. the kid shakes his head with a tight smile, moving to say something.

you’re not sure if he says whatever it is he was going to say, because when you push open the door to the restaurant his voice seems to peter off. you don’t pay him any attention, despite your mild curiosity. you head straight to the counter and just barely manage to hear the waitress say _‘-he’s been late near an hour, kid-‘_ before you’re staring up at the menu.

oh. so he’s been stood up.

you keep staring up at the menu, eyes skipping over the prices and suffering under the overhead lights. you hope you’re right about this. you’re not sure if he was here for a date or not, but you think you remember him mentioning a boyfriend offhand back when you’d talked at the library.

“wings,” you mumble at the cashier, pulling out your wallet. “spicy. can i have a, like, banana smoothie as a drink for that? yeah? thanks.” god, is Theatre a vegetarian? does he have allergies? or, hell, is he lactose intolerant? “uh, and lamb curry. iced tea with that. and cake. the black forest slice?” you look up at the menu again. you hope this doesn’t bite you in the ass.

“bit much for only one person, huh?” the cashier says. you glance at their name tag. it says molly. “you’re here on a date?”

you wish social interaction wasn’t a concept sometimes. you shrug at them. “guess so.”

“that’s nice,” they say. “hot wings with a banana smoothie, lamb curry with iced tea, and a black forest cake slice. is that all?”

you nod, and pull out the appropriate amount of cash from your wallet when they tell you the price. you take the receipt and the wooden, numbered block they hold up. you are number 37.

“it’ll just be a couple minutes,” they say. you thank them and turn around, not sure if you are relieved or dismayed to find that Theatre still hasn’t moved from his table. he’s looking down at his phone now, a frustrated frown on his face as he leans heavily against the wall on his right.

you see the waitress from earlier move toward him again and you beat her to him, saying _hey_ as casually as possible.

(as though you are not completely relying on blind luck and your own ability to bullshit to make it out of this interaction alive and/or with your remaining dignity intact.)

he looks at you with a start, frown twisting itself into a flat line as he stares. you sit at the chair across from him and his hair falls into his eyes. he makes no move to push it away, the incorrigible heathen.

“what,” he says.

(as though you will not completely hurl yourself into the river Meter if this whole thing goes sideways.)

you mirror his expression, albeit with less sincerity or bite. “hey,” you repeat.

he says nothing for a moment. you take said moment to lean back into your seat, settling.

from the corner of your eye you can see the waitress stop. you appreciate her concern for him, but you’ve got this situation handled. or, well. made it your problem. because if you were going to eat in the same restaurant as the only kid who’d ever approached you that hadn’t acted like it was some _achievement_ , and said kid was just sitting alone because he’d been stood up of all the goddamn things, then you were going to do something about it. the fact that you do not know anything about social niceties be damned.

…the fact that you do not know if this kid is allergic to anything you’ve ordered for him is a very important fact. you do not discard it but you sincerely hope that you will find out this evening without any misfortune befalling either of you.

“you know what?” says Theatre at last, the words leaving him in a breath that makes his shoulders drop, “i’m not even going to question this.”

“you probably should,” you tell him. “but i’ll explain later, or whatever.” you adjust the wooden block so the number faces the counter. “if you want explanations.”

“well, i am kind of curious as to why the acclaimed campus bigfoot is sitting across from me at a restaurant i’ve never seen it in before.”

“bigfoot?” you frown. “i thought they thought of me as more of a mothman.”

“don’t presume to be on the same level as mothman,” he snorts, leaning backward. “annoying is what you are. incorrigible. and public opinion has changed. anyway, why shouldn’t i ask a guard to escort you out? you aren’t who i was waiting for.”

“because at least now you have someone to want to have escorted out,” you respond, then wince. “uh, shit.” Theatre looks at you blankly.

“it’s whatever,” he says. “doesn’t matter. i’m a teenager, i own social media, i _read_. i know how this trope goes. did you at least order food before you sat down?”

“oh you do, now do you.” you end up giving a half-assed smile despite yourself. “this isn’t going to go the way you hope it will, Theatre, sorry. oh, and yeah, i did order.”

“nice. and what, you mean it won’t end with me spending a passionate night with you, after which you dramatically declare your love for me- only for me to kill you in a move of utter betrayal and shove your dead body into a ditch?” wow, he’s keyed up. the smile he gives you in response is tight, but there. not forced, more mirthless. “i’m devastated. and _my name is not Theatre._ ”

“haven.”

“that’s better.”

“ _hi,_ ” says molly, arriving at your table. you and haven look up at her in sync. “i have your orders. so you’re the asshole who kept him an hour here?”

her tone is appropriately biting. it is unfortunately aimed at the wrong person. you make to reply before haven interrupts you. “no,” he says, “my dumbass in baggy armor here just decided I was a solid ten and didn’t want to waste a chance.”

you understand that he has been waiting for apparently an hour for a date that never showed up. it is for just this reason that you do not snipe some sarcastic response in retaliation for the dumbass in baggy armor comment. this is done with some great difficulty on your part.

( _i was not_ dressing to impress _today. sorry, your highness, for not wearing my Gucci for you. should you desire me to smooch the ground you spit on with all the loving tenderness of a stereotypical medieval maiden afflicted with the curse of love at first sight, please just say the word and i will do it, thy wish is my_ fucking command _-_ )

molly considers you both, setting the tray down. “okay,” she says slowly. she addresses you. “if you inconvenience this boy in any way, i’m marching you out myself. if that’s okay with you?” she adds, glancing over at haven.

haven grins. you think it’s the most sincere look you’ve seen on him this whole ordeal. “thanks for the concern, miss. you’re more than welcome to do so. kick some ass while you’re at it, you know. whole nine yards.”

“got it,” she says. “enjoy your meal.”

you intend to do just that, and when she walks away you’re already picking up your fork and spoon before you pause, looking up at haven. he catches your glance and frowns. “what?” he asks, “did I already get something on my face?”

you shake your head. “nah, was just wondering if you were the religious type. you know, praying before meals.”

“oh. well, no, i’m not. better question is, did you even consider that i might be allergic to anything before you ordered?”

you falter, hands falling from where they’d been poised to stab your wings. “yeah,” you say, “but i just kind of went fuck it in the end. was lamb curry okay or, like, do you want something else?”

“nah, it’s fine.” he takes a spoonful to demonstrate. “i mean, it’s not like i asked you either before i bought you that donut.”

“this is a full meal,” you say. “don’t you _dare_ compare it to a donut. i’m offended.”

he grins at you. you think this might be worth it.


End file.
